The Promise
by DawnBreaker5000
Summary: Dean Winchester has lost his family, and nearly all his friends are gone. The one person he has left is his almost-father Bobby. He would give anything to get his brother back, but it hasn't been easy. Besides, he promised Sam something before his death. Will he be able to keep his promise? Or could the demon Bobby and himself chase to London be the key to finding his brother?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story takes place after "Swan Song" in Supernatural and during season 2 of Sherlock. I do not own either Supernatural or Sherlock and am unlikely to obtain their ownership in the future, even if I wish _really _hard.**

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**

_"I always tried to protect you. Keep you safe. It's like I had one job. I had one job, and I screwed it up. I blew it, and for that, I'm sorry. How am I supposed to live with that? What am I supposed to do? Sammy?"_

Dean had never been so alone. Never once in his life. Never once in his deaths either, come to think of it. He had always had Sam, and even in the darkest times he had always known that his little brother would be all right, deep in his heart. But that was gone. He had no one: not his mother and not his father. Not Helen or Joe. Not Castiel and not Bobby. One by one they had been alienated. One by one they had been betrayed by him and his recklessness. And now he no longer even had Sam. He didn't have Sam, and he was broken.

It was not as if being broken was a particularly new feeling for him. He had been shattered over and over again, until stone slowly replaced the fragile glass that used to be his heart. He had still saved people, and he had looked after Sammy, but he couldn't muster the will to give two rat's asses about himself. When he went to hell, everything had changed. He had tortured people, and destroyed them. There were so many that he couldn't even remember their names or stories. One man had sold his soul for his daughter's life. Another had grown up being cursed and beaten as a child, until he had done so in turn. Thousands of them: those with good intentions and those with black hearts, and he never would be able to get the stains of their blood off of his soul.

Sam was different, he may have been the one to pull the trigger on the apocalypse, but he did so through the intentions of saving others lives. It was Dean who had bought the gun, taught him how to shoot, put the bullets in, and pointed it in the right direction. The apocalypse was as much his fault as Sam's, and maybe even more, and now Sam had paid the price by doing what was right. And now Sam would be tortured eternally in that hell box that he had locked himself into with the most accomplished torturer in existence. And the one thing Dean dreaded was the possibility that Sam would one day decide to climb of the rack that he was strapped to, and make the same mistake that he had. Dean would never be able to forgive himself.

Sam died to save the world. He had to get him out.

_"You have to promise not to bring me back." "You go find Lisa. You pray to god she's dumb enough to take you in, and you - you have barbecues and go to football games. You go live some normal, apple-pie life, Dean. Promise me!"_

Dean swerved over toward the side of the road and slammed on the breaks of the Impala, swearing. He reached under the side of the passenger seat and pulled out a case of not-so-vintage beer. In one swipe he popped one open and started chugging. After he had drowned half the bottle he slammed it down onto the dashboard. It shattered covering the insides of the Impala in beer and glass. He swore again.

He couldn't do anything without thinking of Sam: not read, not eat, not even talk to obnoxious people. When he saw the sky he thought of the long nights they spent here, in their small home, just looking at the stars. He didn't want to give him up, and he couldn't let him go. What could he do? Sam's last request echoed over and over again in his ears. A shadow of what had been.

He didn't want to go to Lisa's. He came close- hell, he had spent the last month circling Indianapolis. He had driven through Cicero, Indiana more times than he could count. Once, he had even gotten to the street where she lived. But always there was another excuse, always there was a monster, or an 'I'll just wait until tomorrow.' He couldn't do it. He knew he couldn't do it. Because, however hard he may try, he couldn't give up Sam.

So he started finding demons. He interrogated them. He tortured them. He found pleasure in their screams. And nothing he did- not one demon he found- was able to give him a way to give his little brother back. Dean eyed the gun sitting in his passengers seat. Cocked, loaded, and almost set to shoot. The safety was off. All he had to do was a little click, and he could join Sam in the pit. Dean didn't believe he was going to heaven.

He swore again, and coated with glass, bear, and self-loathing went back to the road and began driving to Bobby's. He got there around three in the morning, and not gathering up the courage to go to the door and go inside he sat in the car that held his best and worst memories until he fell asleep. That was how Bobby found him the next morning. Dean wasn't awake to see Bobby turn away and let a single tear fall down his face before wiping it away angrily and going to get the hose. He was woken when Bobby opened the Impala door, dragged Dean onto the ground, and sprayed him off, commenting on the idiocy of his almost-son the entire time.

* * *

"Would you like to explain to me what the hell you think your doing?" Bobby seethed at Dean. "So your brother's gone: BOO HOO. You've been doing nothing but kill yourself for the past month. You have other people that care about you Dean!"

Dean looked up at Bobby, squinting in the early morning sunlight. "Bobby…" he moaned, rubbing one arm over his eyes as if to wipe the sun away.

"WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO SAY IT ANY LOUDER!?" Bobby shouted, crouching down towards Dean's ear to achieve maximum volume. "Don't think I don't see that gun in your passengers seat. I know what it's like to loose part of myself," Dean opened his mouth to interrupt, but Bobby talked over whatever Dean had been about to say, "Don't tell me I don't boy. I've lost everything I have besides you. You made me promise to hold on, and now you're going to promise the same thing to me."

"Do you have to talk so loud?" Dean whined, covering his head pathetically, "Other people have gone deaf before you know."

"Yes!" Bobby shouted in Dean's ear, more commandingly than plenty of men in the military, "Now, I'm gonna tell you what your gonna do. You're going to suck it up, clean up yourself and your car, and come inside. There, we're going to have a nice long heart to heart. You get me?"

Dean moaned.

"I'll take that as a yes then," Bobby said contemptuously, "Now GET MOVING!"

Leaving the hose still spraying over Dean, Bobby stormed toward the house, disappearing around the side. Another moment and the hose sputtered to a stop.

After a few more minutes of wallowing in self-pity and mud Dean slowly sat up. His head hurt with a vengeance. He peered into the car and saw the carnage he had made the last night. "Oh baby, what did I do to you?" he murmured. He ran his hand along the side of the care, stopping it right above the driver's side window. Ducking down to get a better view of the Impala's inners he directed his gaze towards the passenger's side seat. After a moment he saw that the gun was gone. "Son of a bitch…Bobby!"

Dean ran up to Bobby's house and pounded on the door three times before slumping on the wall next to the entrance of the house. After a moment multiple locks were clicked out of place and Bobby's head appeared through a crack in the door. "Are you done cleaning up yet?" he asked gruffly.

"No, but—"

"Well what are you doing moping outside my door then?" The door clicked shut and the crackle of several locks going back into place was heard.

Dean stared at the place where Bobby's head had appeared just moments before in disbelief. He nocked again, yelling "Bobby!" sharply. Muffled behind the door he heard Bobby's voice say something that sounded suspiciously like 'Go away.' "But Bobby!"

Another crackle and Bobby's head appeared around the side of the door again. "Look kid, as much as seeing the innards of my house must interest you, you ain't going through this door until you have your car and yourself cleaned up. Even I have a reputation to uphold."

"Bobby you're the town drunk." Dean said in disbelief, but the door popped shut again. "Shit," Dean swore. After glancing back at the Impala once, he leaned his head against the door. Regretfully, he slowly took a few steps back, preparing himself to kick the door in. He stood in that position for what seemed to him as quite a long time, before he swore again, turned away, and headed back towards his car.

Three hours later he was brushing out the last of the glass from under the passenger's seat in a newly changed shirt and jeans that he had worn the day before yesterday while hunting a Kobold that had gone rough and killed the occupants of several neighboring houses. In his defense, the small bloodstain on the sleeves was from a different hunt. The shirt didn't even smell too bad for not being washed in over three months. A jacket was draped over the hood of the car, and a plaid shirt was bundled up in the driver's seat. The sun blazed hell-fire from overhead.

He wiped his forehead with his arm, managing to spread the sweat more than get it off, and ducked his head back down to the floor of the Impala peering under the seats for any stray glass. Not finding any he stood up, grabbed the shirt bundled in the seat, pushed the Impala door shut, and leaned on the jacket resting on the hood. He had a streak of dirt on his cheek from when he had wiped away the sweat with his arm. Staring straight ahead he rested there, in the heat of the sun, both anticipating and dreading the conversation that was to come. He pushed himself away from that object that was so much more than a car and slinging his jacket and over-shirt over his shoulder he walked back up to the door of Bobby Singer's house. He knocked.

After a long moment the door opened, fully this time, and Bobby appeared in the frame. He scanned Dean up and down before directing his gaze past him to the car. "Took you long enough," he grunted, and stepped back so Dean could step by him. Glancing sharply at Bobby Dean swept into the house, throwing his jacket and shirt over the back of a chair. After giving a quick once-over to what could be described as Bobby's office Dean turned back to Bobby, now standing in the doorway of the office room giving Dean a _look_.

"Bobby," he led, "where the hell is my gun?" Bobby rolled his eyes and stepped into the room, walking around the chair and table Dean was standing in front of. Dean turned with Bobby as Bobby walked around him.

Once he had reached the opposite side of his desk he said. "And what exactly were you planning on doing with it, I wonder? Gonna have a nice mosey with it in the park? Blow the tops of off all those pretty tulips?" Dean stared at him. "Maybe you thought you'd take more weapons along with you too," continued Bobby, "and were wondering what 'the hell' I've done with all the pretty toys you keep in your trunk." A pause. "Now you listen here boy. You're gonna sit down and have a nice chat with me or so help me I will lock you in the basement."

"Bobby, I didn't mean to come here. I was drunk, and I was angry, and I was fed up with all the crap going on in my life right now. Now give me my gun and my tools and let me go." The glaring match that followed could compete with the one between Michael and Lucifer that Dean had so kindly interrupted that day. It lasted longer too: one, two, five minutes slipped by with both of the men determined not to loose any ground. On any other day, or in any other state Dean might of won, but Bobby was driven by a father's love. He was the only one that could make Sam and Dean pause in their beliefs anyhow.

Dean was the one that sank down into his chair first.

"Well glad you finally got some sense into you," Bobby barked, sitting down as well. "Now," he continued sardonically, "are we ready to talk about our feelings?" Dean stared straight ahead. "I'll take that as a yes. Look son, I'll start, and be honest with you. Your life sucks." This startled Dean, who had been expecting the whole you are special and beautiful and isn't that rainbow nice outside speech. He moved his eyes to meet Bobby's.

"Thanks Bobby," he growled, "very therapeutic. Are we going to do yoga now?"

Bobby talked over Dean as if he hadn't heard. "You and that idjit brother of yours saved a lot of people doing what you did, and I ain't gonna forget it. Now, I've known you two knuckleheads for quite some time, and I know you're gonna keep whining till your brother gets back." Dean looked away. "So get this in that thick skull of yours Dean: Sam wanted you to have a happy life, just like you wanted for him. Any idjit could see it. So whatever he made you promise to do you're gonna do it. And you're not getting your gun back until you promise me a couple of things too."

There was a pause, and when Dean looked up there was a dry, angry pain in his eyes. "Bobby, listen up. I've been trying and I can't. Once you get in this life you don't ever get out. Not ever. I've been hunting demons Bobby, and I'm getting close, I can feel it."

"You think I'm blind boy? I'm not that old, and I'm a more popular conversationalist than you. I know what you've been up too. But understand me Dean, you continue on this trail, and I don't know if you'll like what you find." There was a pause, as if Bobby considered saying more. A long moment and he continued, "Sammy went to hell, Dean. To hell. You of anybody should know what that's like."

Dean looked back at Bobby. "Bobby," he said, softly, "Do you know how God-damned shady that sounded?" Bobby glanced away for a fraction of a second, but Dean caught it anyway. "Bobby," he spat, "Do you know something I don't?"

Bobby slumped slightly in his chair. Dean wondered when he had risen. "It's nothing kid, don't worry about it. There have just been whispers…its nothing." Bobby raised his gaze to meet Dean's. Sighing in a would-be casual tone he intoned "There's some more books I've brought in recently if you want to scan them for anything to help you with your demon hunt." Bobby had lost only a little of the fire in his tone. "But, Dean: I still need you to promise me some things."

Dean stared suspiciously at Bobby. His tone grew stronger. "Name them," he said, curiously taking strength in Bobby's vague hints, "I'd like to get back to work."

"I'm sure you would, boy," Bobby said sarcastically, "Of course, I forgot that you're gonna be nodding your way through this talk just to get it over with and then go back to the far more important matters of your booze and suicidal thoughts." Dean pointed at himself mouthing 'Me?' mockingly. Bobby rolled his eyes at him. "First off, you are gonna stow away that gun. Checking out won't do nobody no good, least of all Sam. Could you have had a stupider idea?"

"You didn't seem to think it was a half bad plan not that long ago," Dean growled softly to Bobby.

"Like you have the lottery on being an idjit? Even with the lot of it you take up there's still a thin sliver to go around." A smirk graced Bobby's gruff face as he continued, "Just because you think I'm immortal and perfect don't mean I am, son." After a pause Dean nodded jerkily. "Fantastic," rumbled Bobby under his breath, "thank God I don't have to worry now."

"You gonna keep talking Bobby or can I get to work yet?" Dean indicated the doorway.

"Since when does 'some things' mean one condition?" Bobby asked, "Or did I miss some special lesson in the English language they only teach at smart-ass prep?" Dean glared at Bobby. "Right…" Bobby mumbled, "stoic: I forgot. Anyhow, next few hours, you're gonna get some sleep."

It took every inch of Dean's self-control not to roll his eyes. "I've been sleeping Bobby," he protested gruffly. The dark circles under his eyes became more pronounced as he turned his back to the sunbeams peeking through the window to his right.

"Right…" Bobby said. "Just like you were sleeping when you got back from hell, or when Ruby was gettin Sam to drink demon blood, or when you learned Lucifer wanted to take a little trip into Sam's noggin. Or how you were sleeping when you were gettin close to letting your _guardian angel_ or whatever Michael called it into _your_ noggin. Or when Helen and Jo kicked the bucket. Or when Cas started turning honorary human. Or when…"

"Alright!" Dean barked. "Point made: I'll grab a few. Anything else you wanted to do or has the concern for my well-being dried up?"

Bobby didn't respond for so long that Dean made to get up. "Hold on, boy," Bobby intervened, "I got one more thing, but you're not gonna like it, and when you don't like something it generally doesn't get done anyhow."

"Out with it Bobby."

"I'm lettin you out of my sight for a few, but I don't like it, and I sure as hell don't think it's a good idea." A pause. "I need you to promise me that after the next big fish you gut in that big wide ocean of sharks that tells you…" Bobby drifted off. "Goddamnit!" he said suddenly, "there's no good way to put this. I need you to promise me that after another fortnight of this you're gonna give it up or so help me I will find you, drag you back to my place, and stick you in the bunker till you get your head on straight."

Dean sat their for a few moments before saying, "Right Bobby: of course." He then pushed his chair out, grabbed his jacket and over shirt, and swept out of the room, heading for the staircase to Bobby's bedrooms upstairs to crash in one of the beds.

Bobby sat in his chair a long time after Dean left, debating and reviewing and discarding ideas in his mind. Sighing he stood up and walked into the kitchen. He opened his fridge and grabbed a beer. After taking a swig he looked back outside to the Impala and shook his head.

"Idjit," he said sadly.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

Dean hadn't truly smiled since Sam had gone. Not one expression of true happiness had graced his stone-cold face. But when he saw the people that they protected walking and talking and living their normal—their apple-pie—lives, he weighed the price and found it necessary.

He hated himself for it.

For this new world, the world that they saved, should be able to be shared. It was just, and it was fair, and he and Sam sure as hell deserved it. Dean had decided long ago that any God that had planned this mess was stupid, and screw the 'He works in mysterious ways.'

There was no respite in rest, for Dean's dreams were plagued with shadowy images of Sam falling and Cas exploding and Bobby lying on the ground with his spine broken. He was kneeling and felt the knife edged into Sammy's back. He was standing over his dad's broken body. He felt the heat on his face of the building exploding with Helen and Jo inside. He was watching Lucifer rise from the cage. And suddenly there was fire and death and burning as he wedged Alastair's knife into the eye of a woman who had murdered her husband and he felt a tickle of giddiness in his stomach as he watched the blood pour down her face.

And then her face turned into Sam's.

There was a reason he didn't sleep.

Suddenly through Dean's haze he heard a steady thump of footsteps climbing the staircase to the room at Bobby's where he had crashed. As the dreams faded for the moment and he moved his hand slightly to grab the knife that he normally kept under his pillow, before remembering that Bobby had taken all of his weapons. The door screeched open and Dean tensed under the sparse blankets that covered his body. A screech of a floorboard and Dean carefully began to open his eyes.

"There's no use pretending you're out, princess," came a gruff voice from the doorframe. "Your dad taught you better then to let people sneak up on you when you're sleeping."

Dean would normally tend to agree with this statement, but with the trip 'upstairs' with Sam still fresh in his mind he knew that his waking had more to do with his nightmares than with the noises in the hall. His stomach still dropped as he remembered the two hunters who decided to make it their mission to blow Sam's and his brains out. He and Sam had saved many people, but he had hurt many, many more, and he would do well to remember that.

Through his early-morning grog the memories of the fact that Sam and himself had shared a heaven rose to the top of his mind. The firecrackers blossomed in his mind's eye and his little brother stood in that nightly field laughing and hugging him, gazing at the light show up above. His little brother's face appeared before his eyes as clear as if it was yesterday that they had stood there: just Sam, himself, and the sparks.

Sam was gone.

Suddenly, Dean didn't feel so happy to have escaped his sleep.

Dean's eyes focused on the window by the bed. "Dammit Bobby," he groggily cursed, glancing at the morning light filtering through the window. "…you let me sleep since last noon; really Bobby! I've got work to do."

Bobby stayed in the door, surveying Dean's now slowly rising form. "_We've_ got work to do, you knucklehead," Bobby corrected, exasperatingly firm. "If you think I'm letting you wander off in your condition than you're a bigger idjit than I thought. I suppose it's hopeful you didn't wander off in the night- that way we'll get more work done today. Not that you would have gotten very far."

"That finish wasn't ominous at all," mumbled Dean sarcastically. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and propped himself up by pushing his hands behind him on the mattress. His head was bowed. This morning wasn't as bad as the last one was. His head still throbbed, but from nightmares, not bad beer, and he was awake after a good night of sleep, not after a night of self-depressive drinking.

Dean hated it. Focus didn't do much for him, besides see the harm that he has done: to Bobby, to Sam, to Cas, and to his once-upon-a-time family. Nothing put family into perspective as much as your entire family being absent and most of your family being dead.

Still, the universe hadn't taken his entire family.

"You think in the state you were in I wouldn't have taken precautions?" Bobby scoffed, "you nearly killed yourself, boy." He drifted into silence, and if Dean hadn't known Bobby for years, he would consider that Bobby's mind might be treading a similar path as his own. After a moment Bobby became more businesslike. "Be down in five; I have a nice therapeutic plan for this morning." Bobby smirked. "It includes breakfast and reading!" A second, and Bobby was gone.

Dean groaned, letting his head fall back onto the bed, his legs still hanging over the side of the bed facing the door.

He found himself staring at the ceiling.

* * *

Dean came down not long after Bobby to find that the therapeutic breakfast included all of a slice of bread and a glass of orange juice. He grabbed a plate with the said items and chowed down. There was a map spread across Bobby's desk with several towns that Dean had passed on the way to Bobby's house were circled in red sharpie. An open book was lying over the map. He supposed that the book was the therapeutic reading. He groaned. Dean was about to peer over the clutter and confusion of Bobby's desk to read what was said on the open page when he heard Bobby's voice from the opposite room. Turning around he found the old drunk answering a phone call.

"Yes Garth I'm _sure_ that there is no such thing as unicorns," Bobby was saying over his personal cell.

Bobby had phones for almost everything, and a fair number of them were on the wall. These included his personal phone, as well as the Health Department, the Police, the COC, the FBI, and the Federal Marshall phones, all for quick and impromptu access. Anything else hunters wanted him to con for them they would have to call ahead. Dean and Sam had learned that in their hunting exploits very quickly, and not without their fair share of personal grief. Cas had never learned at all, and had only ever called Bobby on the Police phone, if he bothered to call at all. Dean stared at the rough writing marking it, 'Police: Pete Lovell'" as Bobby continued talking:

"I know that there is lore for unicorns Garth, but not everything that has lore for it is real, take dragons." From the other end of the phone Dean could vaguely hear a responding voice. After what sound like a sentence or two Bobby replied back to the unknown hunter. "No, dragons aren't real either." There was another short pause. "Yes, I know that I didn't believe you about the tooth fairy either….No Garth, I have not been Garth'd….For God's sake Garth SHUT UP."

Dean, who had pulled his eyes away from Bobby's line of phones and had been listening in snorted. "New one, huh? Strange one too," he mouthed at Bobby, who glanced up at him and motioned him to be quite. Dean knew the look on Bobby's face: the hunter was describing the behavior of the creature to Bobby and Bobby, who in all reality almost never even needed his extensive library, was trying to match the creature to one that he might be familiar with.

An exclamation from the other end of the line that sounded like it had something to do with unicorns, and Bobby eyes then went so high they might have sought the heavens, if he were not aware of the messed-up state of their neighbors upstairs. "What do I do with you hunters?" He glanced down up to Dean's expectant form. "…Sorry Garth, I have to go. It sounds like you're dealing with a _kelpie_— though I've never heard of one outside of Ireland. It can be killed by silver, like werewolves, or if you want to get creative it can be hurt by heated iron," there was another long pause until Bobby finished up his call. "Son'f-a-bitch Garth, be a hunter, and don't be whiney." Bobby hung up.

As Bobby turned to face Dean, Dean slowly raised a single eyebrow. One glance at Dean's face and Bobby understood exactly what was going through the younger hunter's mind. Strangely, he got unusually defensive of this unknown third-party.

"Leave him be, Dean," he said, addressing Dean's look, "Garth is a fine hunter even if he is a bit odd. And when it counts he's got his head on straight." Bobby's eyes grew sad. "His life hasn't gone to hell yet, either, so cut him some slack if you ever work a case with him." His voice receded he mumbled, "Somebody in this damn job deserves that much."

There was a moment of silence, as if Bobby feared that he had said more of his most inward thoughts than he ever allowed himself to. Then, suddenly businesslike, Bobby brushed past Dean and got behind his desk. "I'm assuming you know what this is," he stated, pointing at the map lying over his desk. On closer inspection the red circles didn't only cover the towns that Dean had past on his way to Bobby's, but also several others in the surrounding area.

"Still more demon activity than usual, huh?" Dean asked, though the question was rhetorical. Even with Lucifer down the pit demons still were much more common than they had been when Sam and himself started hunting. It wasn't only Lucifer that had freed the demons, after all. Millions escaped hell-fire when the gates of hell were opened—another mistake on his part. Dean smiled ironically. It was hard to believe that just one man had caused so much suffering.

But he saved people too. He needed to remember that. He had saved people.

He couldn't save Sam.

Bobby nodded vaguely in response to Dean's question, picking up a pen and pointing it towards a town about forty-five minutes away. "I was looking for higher level demons, but with the weather as screwball as it is right now anyway it was a little hard to tell what was demon activity and what was trash. I figured this was our best shot."

The town was small, no more than a fifteen hundred population, and right smack in the middle of nowhere in particular. "You sure Bobby?" Dean asked, his brow furrowing. He pointed towards the nearby city circled in red. "That seems like a more convenient place. More people mean not as much attention to murder, and there are more likely to be areas of quality living. Not many demons go for impoverished living."

"You think I didn't think of that? I've been hunting longer then you've been alive. But look here," he shifted his pointing finger to a small plot of land near the main town. "That's a contact of mine. For weeks she's been getting the worse-than-migraine headaches she only gets when big demons are up and kicking. And its not as isolated as you might think—a politician's who's been starting to get a lot of attention recently, Dick Roman, has bought out almost the entire area. A 'hunting ground,' he said. An up-and-comer trying to emulate Crowley might head there in preparation for the arrival of some big fish."

Dean grabbed his jacket and plaid over-shirt from where he had tossed them the day before, and was halfway to the door before his response, "Sounds good," was even halfway out of his mouth. Bobby cleared his throat, and Dean reluctantly turned as Bobby surveyed him from behind his desk, brows raised.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"They have Sam, Bobby. Sam. If you're not gonna keep up then you can stay behind."

If Bobby's eyebrows traveled any further up his head they might leap of the top of it, full cartoon style. "Do you think you might be forgetting something?" Bobby sarcastically led. As Dean stood there in confusion and the seconds lengthened Bobby let out a tensed sigh from under his breath, and his hands went up to message his temples. "It's amazing you've survived this long—your _weapons_, boy. Are you in so much of a hurry that you're gonna leave those behind, too? Even you might have trouble getting Sam back with your bare hands."

Shaking his head sardonically, Bobby went into a back room of his house and came out with an over-stuffed duffle. "This isn't everything you had in that handy-dandy trunk of yours, but it's everything I need to keep you out of trouble and nab some bad-guys." He surveyed Dean, who had assumed a self-righteous pose, arms crossed and eyebrows down. "You idjit hunters are lucky you have me," he mumbled. Addressing Dean again he swept past him, heading for the door:

"So are ya comin' or what?"

* * *

Sherlock decided long ago that people were boring: all those individuals parading past him every day asking useless, boring questions with useless, boring answers.

"Is my husband sleeping with another woman?"

Idiot.

"How could my little brother have committed murder?"

Idiot.

"I always dreamt of going into politics."

_Idiot_.

Why couldn't people just see? Why couldn't they understand? There were so many interesting things happening all around all the time and they just kept walking in their own little bubbles holding their heads high in their own little worlds as though the world was a blank slate.

So Sherlock took his refuge where he could. He surrounded himself with marginally less stupid people and tracked the interesting bits of life. Minds that were twisted and warped beyond reason and beyond hope. Thoughts that weighed the balance of lives against their own as if they were measuring the weight of copper to gold. What would it be like to look at people and see a dead man walking instead of a bubble of life? Life- the puzzle piece that was stranger than any mind, even Sherlock's, could conceive.

A complex mind. All great criminals have that.

Normal people were so _boring_.

On the left of Sherlock a phone buzzed on the cluttered little coffee table for the second time in thirty seconds. Sherlock dismissed it to carry on through his thoughts.

The world was a puzzle: each action, each choice, and each force for good or evil working to create a bigger picture. The pieces could not view the overall puzzle—only the pieces around them, and many of the pieces were only concerned with fitting in and doing their part. Sherlock was the piece that didn't fit. He was the piece that was set to the side. He could see it all. One piece led to four more, and each of those to more after them. One connection to another to form a picture that only Sherlock could see.

And what about the piece that Moriarty? A genius, certainly, and one with a mind set free of limitations. Another piece that did not fit in the puzzle. Another man who could see the connections and follow their trail to the overall picture.

But he had never come up against anybody like Sherlock before. Sherlock had played every reunion feasible over and over again in his mind, and no matter how it played only Sherlock or Moriarty could walk out of their next confrontation alive.

Moriarty would do well not to confront Sherlock again—

Again, the phone buzzed. Again it was dismissed.

Sherlock thought of the people who, despite his best efforts, had become his friends. Lestrade had shown him the new way to stimulate his mind, much to the relief of his over-protective, power-hungry, corporate-politician brother.

Mrs. Hudson had taken him in and provided for him.

And John. John had shown him that being human, even with all their emotions, quirks, and stupidity, was not always a weakness. In fact Sherlock had come so far as to admit that it was sometimes a strength.

Sherlock and John was an unlikely pair. One thinking, the other feeling. One sensing, the other intuiting. Yet their differences complemented each other, and Sherlock had no doubt that he would be dead if John didn't become his flat mate. In fact, he played countless scenarios of different cases that John had helped him with, and there was only a 6.17% chance that he would still be alive today if John had not joined him.

Speaking of John, Sherlock heard the slam of a door downstairs, and could hear his friend's heavy footsteps falling on the stairs. Judging by the increments between the thuds and the heaviness of the steps, Sherlock judged that John was angry and storming up the steps at an unprecedented rate. Quickly, he snatched up his phone from the table beside him and viewed the texts that had been coming, with more and more frequency, over the past thirty minutes. Just as Sherlock suspected Lestrade had been trying to contact him over that span of time and, upon giving up, had told John to try and contact him instead.

Judging by the rate of crime in the city and the last interesting case that was presented to Sherlock, he judged that this case was unlikely to be any more interesting than the last. Carefully placing the phone where it was Sherlock again lay down, causing John to be greeted with the sight of Sherlock innocently lost in his "mind palace" as he stormed through the door.

"_Sherlock!_" John seethed, opening the conversation. "Why the hell haven't you been answering your phone?"

Sherlock cracked one eye open, turning his head slightly to view John, acting for all the world like he had been lying in that exact same position for the past few hours. "No need to yell John," he articulated. "I was thinking." He closed his eye and turned his head again so that it was facing the ceiling.

"You can think for weeks for all I care, as long as you can stop thinking when there is a murder to be solved." For all his blustering, John seemed rather excited.

"When did you start skipping work for a murder?" Sherlock drawled, smugly.

"When did you stop answering the door for the new cases?" John retaliated.

Fully aware that John had just side-stepped answering his question, Sherlock smirked. "John," he replied, "judging by the rate of crime in the city I found it unlikely that any murder that Lestrade could present me with would be of any interest. Naturally, I decided I had more important things to do."

John's ears might as well have been steaming. "So." He made sure to annunciate every word carefully. "You knew there was a case."

Sherlock heard the quiet, calm in John's tone and deemed it wise not to respond.

John spun around and seethed back down the stairs, murmuring curses. When he reached the landing he shouted upstairs to where Sherlock was, "Get your coat!" Sherlock grinned, an expression, though still not common on his face, he was beginning to use with increasing frequency. He sat up, grabbed his coat and his phone, still lying on the table, and swept out of the flat. He turned his collar up on his way out.

A/N: There was no beta; so all mistakes are my own. Love y'all!


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

As usual, the scene was still the bumbling, blustering mess that the homicide squad left in their wake. As far as Sherlock was concerned it was a miracle they managed to get anything done at all, let alone without his help. Despite the surprising realization that he considered Lestrade to be his friend, he was still exasperated at any shows of incompetence that the D.I. might occasionally displayed in his field. Not that the man was a bad detective, but nobody could compete with Sherlock's aptitude for this work.

* * *

The first time Sherlock had met Lestrade he was taken in for possession and use of cocaine. Sherlock was furious at the time, not at the young up-and-comer who had caught him and several of his junkie 'friends' in the act of liberally administering the drug to themselves and paying the seller, but at himself for not seeing the signs that led to their arrest in time to avoid it. He was distracted at the time on calculations that would tell him what extent his drug use would have to be to annoy his domineering brother.

While being held, Sherlock couldn't help but notice the suspect waiting for their turn for an interview on a murder charge. The young up-and-comer, who had also bagged this sullen suspect, had picked up the wrong man, as was obvious by the scuffmarks on the back of the accused's heels. Sherlock took it upon himself to tell the youthful detective so. For whatever reason, the young detective, whose name was George Lestrade, believed him.

Mycroft, deciding to let Sherlock stew for a while in confinement, arrived a little to late to stop the landslide of subsequent events…much to his eternal chagrin. By the time he deemed Sherlock had boiled in custody long enough Sherlock had already decided to become the first consulting detective in the world.

* * *

Sherlock held the yellow police tape up for John and himself to duck under and greeted Sally Donavon with an ironic nod. She glanced at him, rolled her eyes, and hurried quickly away to talk with a forensics man emerging from the slightly shady building entrance in the back alley that the police were taping off. Sherlock smirked to himself and, after catching sight of Lestrade, hurried over to talk with the harried detective. Sherlock was about to open his mouth to state that this crime was statistically unlikely to be interesting when Lestrade cut him off mid-thought.

"I know you think you'll find this one boring, Sherlock, but you go through the same routine every time you think its not a serial killer," Lestrade lead, exasperated. "Despite your continued assertions to the contrary, I actually _am_ capable of doing my job without you, so just assume that every time I call you the crime is going to be supernaturally weird."

Sherlock, deeming not to respond, gave Lestrade a unconvinced glance and pointed to the door that the forensic scientist had emerged from. "I'm assuming I'll find the body in there," he stated. Without waiting for a response Sherlock strode to the door and went inside, leaving Lestrade and John gazing after him.

After a long pause Lestrade huffed, "He may be brilliant, but sometimes he can be so damned infuriating."

John shot him a pitying glance. "He doesn't mean to do it you know," he apologized to the agitated detective.

"Doesn't make me want to kill him any less."

John snorted, clapped the detective on the shoulder, and trotted in Sherlock's wake. After a sigh, Detective Lestrade followed.

* * *

The inside of the dingy, backstreet hotel was parallel to any other dingy, backstreet hotel in the majority of the United Kingdom: small and dull, with wallpaper that had more disturbing stains then was usually desired by the residents. The hallway had doors lining it, and Sherlock turned, without hesitation, to the first door on the right.

This lead into a dimly lit staircase winding upward, which Sherlock took two steps at a time. John and Lestrade had to hustle after him to keep up and they managed to keep close behind him all the way up to the third landing, where he slowed. The door of the landing lead to another hallway, and this time Sherlock sauntered—a contrast to his previous pace—down several doors before turning to one on the left, which had a small crowd of people around it. They fell silent as Sherlock approached and a man that appeared to also be on forensics looked around Sherlock deliberately to Lestrade, who nodded tiredly. The crowd of people made way for Sherlock. He brushed past them, with Lestrade and John following behind.

The crime was, for lack of other words _wrong_. There were no huge smatterings of blood, or half-decapitated bodies. There were no cryptic notes or unidentified materials. In fact, the small apartment, that should have been at least grimy by example of the complex, was uncannily clean, tidy, and comfortable.

The corpse was sitting on a small couch facing an old-style radio. He wore a grey undershirt and slacks, with his shoes kicked aside lying on top of a nice dinner jacket with plaid lining inside. There was no mark on him, other then a slight stain of blood on the man's tidy, grey undershirt in the region of his chest. It looked no more than a scratch, and could have been days old.

It was just sitting there. It wasn't sprawled, or even in a slightly uncomfortable position. It was sitting, just as any person would, like it was listening to the radio or had just put down a good book. The freshness of the pallor of the corpse would have even given the illusion that it was sleeping, if not for the eyes. The eyes stared straight ahead in cold, contemplation of something that was just out of sight. The mouth hung slightly open.

Sherlock looked at the corpse, not moving any muscles in his body but his eyes, which flicked back and forth taking in every detail of the body. "John," he said after around ten seconds, and John stepped forward to examine the body.

He examined it again.

He cleared his throat self-consciously and said, palely, "…This man…should not be dead…" He crouched down and began a third examination of the body, and after a brief inquiry of Lestrade, lifting the shirt to view what the old cut looked like. He found a symbol that looked familiar, like a five-point star surrounded by a circle of flames, and noticed that the cut had shorn right through the side of the pentagram. Sherlock's eyes narrowed momentarily, before his face became impassive again.

"It doesn't seem like poisoning, either," John said gruffly, as he carefully lowered the mans shirt to cover his muscular chest, "Or at least anything I can identify without proper equipment."

Lestrade twitched, after staring at the common practice with familiarity, and cut through the tense air saying, "You'll want to see this too."

He led the two friends through a doorframe with no door in it, into what appeared to be a tiny bedroom. Like the rest of the house it was neat, orderly, and cleaner then it had a right to be. Lestrade strode up to the back banister of the bed and tore removed the back of the bedframe.

"Holy crap." John stared.

There was an arsenal of weapons so large that it seemed impossible to have been able to smuggle them anywhere, let alone in the most highly surveyed city on the planet. Several styles of guns, including everything from old-style rifles to a .45 caliber pistol, were mounted on the back of the niche. Different, deadly, swords and knifes, containing a pair of lethal Katana's lay in orderly rows to the bottom right of the slot.

On the left contained several other random items, labeled neatly, with tags such as: 'holy water', 'holy oil', 'blood of a ram', and what seemed to be a completely unnecessary, in light of the crannies' other occupants, 'sharpened mahogany stake'.

Sherlock leaned closer and, bending from the waist rather then hunching his back, and said, "I'll need to examine these individually." He didn't bother turning his head to get a look at Lestrade.

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "You know I can't let you take whatever you want Sherlock. Any information that you can get off of these items you'll need to get now. This goes to evidence." He glanced down at a plain wristwatch on his arm and told Sherlock, "We're almost out of time. Any information you have, I'll need it."

At that moment, everything fell apart.

It didn't start chaotically. The first buzz that something was wrong started with just enough noise and rising murmur in the hallway to cut of Sherlock's response and cause him to shift his weight. He was getting in a better position to hear the mutterings outside.

Though he couldn't decipher the quiet clash of voices, he didn't have to wait long to find the answer to what was going on.

The noise again fell silent—indeed even quieter than before—and there was what seemed to be a long pause, in which Sherlock didn't move, and John and Lestrade exchanged cautious glances. John's hand twitched at his side, as if he were reaching for a non-existent gun.

The door to the main room burst open, and a murmur of voices again resumed. They didn't yet seem to realize that there was somebody else within easy hearing distance, and it soon became evident that the people that they had evidently hustled away outside had not told them that their DI, Sherlock, and his friend John had entered the room a few minutes before.

"This is the third case we've had like this all week." It was a woman's voice, and it seemed too small and cute to be part of the ominous rabble outside the doorframe. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade stood very quietly, listening. They were giving in to that curious human quirk that seems determined to get people into trouble.

"It won't be the last either. We came too late." A man's voice this time: deeper and coarser.

"First hunter though." It was the woman again. "It's bound to attract the attention of the press sooner or later. We'll barely be able to cover this up as suicide….How did the cops get here so fast, anyhow?"

John glanced at Lestrade, who was looking determinedly at the doorpost, as if when he looked away the voices would die down. John also got the uncomfortable feeling that the detective was avoiding his gaze.

"This is like the rest," said a new man, who John presumed had just examined the body. "He's hopping so fast from one person to another, you'd think he had somebody after him. Or, at least, you know, an _agenda_." This young, sarcastic, masculine voice elicited a round of dry chuckles from the group.

"I'll go check what's through the door," said the older and deeper male. John didn't remember hearing his distinctive voice in the laughter.

Not Sherlock, John, or Lestrade made a move to try to hide as they realized what was coming. And as the man turned through the doorframe, in what seemed to the trio to be slow motion, he drew abruptly to a halt. Interestingly, his eyes fell on Sherlock, dismissing the detective and John quiet thoroughly.

In the background, a dim, "What's going on, Harry?" resonated through the air from the woman's voice.

Harry responded, his eyes still glued to Sherlock's with a quite encompassing and brilliantly diplomatically stated, "Shit."

Sherlock did not respond, but glanced up and down the man quickly. Then, he then met the man's eyes, having to crane his neck to get a good look of the tall, bristly, lanky strangers dark eyes. The pools of twinkling light in them lessened his ominous look only slightly. As an aside to John and Lestrade he said, "Their MI5." He continued staring at the man. Addressing him directly this time, he shifted. "You're Mycroft's men." He let his gaze slip off of the man like water off of plastic and directed his eyes to the rest of the crew, which had assembled curiously in the doorway. He nodded to the two women standing, craning their necks over the lanky man's shoulders to get a look at what was going on. "And women." Sherlock said flatly.

Lestrade stared at the five of the MI5 agents and said, echoing the man's words right back at him.

"Shit."

His exclamation had an underlying awe in it, however, which the taller man's had lacked.

The accumulated group in the doorway were a motley bunch, contradicting each other nicely, and not at all what you might have expected from the secret service. Aside from the tall, dark man there was a short, five-foot-nothing woman that might have looked more at home in a cheerleading squad, if not for the catlike stance that she held herself in. There was a boyish, almost boisterous looking young man, who carried a case under his arm that might have held forensic supplies. There was a short—though not quite as short as the blonde woman—dark man who leaned casually on the wall behind the doorframe and seemed to not be surprised by any of the trio standing in the bedroom. In fact, he looked completely unfazed. Finally, there was a tall woman, her height amplified by painfully tall heels, which wore her hair up in a bun and gazed sternly down on the assembled, variegated bunch.

"Mr. Holmes will love this one." It was the short woman, her voice giving her away to be the woman that they had overheard. Both Lestrade and John had a slight double-take, having been so used to, likely because of Sherlock's influence, calling the patriarch of the United Kingdom Mycroft.

"What should we do?" The tall woman had a much deeper voice than seemed natural, and only Sherlock, of the guilty three, looked unsurprised.

Sherlock casually interceded as the four of the five agents shifted uncomfortably, "I suggest you let us go." The four faces of those standing in the doorway slid back to Sherlock, staring at him in a kind of dazed, awe. John was surprised. He considered working with Mycroft to be much more awe-inspiring then Sherlock, once you got past the occasional urge to strangle the man. Just then, the man leaning in the back of the four, the only one who hadn't spoken so far, started to laugh.

If he had pulled a gun the reaction would almost have been less strong. All but Sherlock jumped and six hands went to where a gun would be holstered, though only five were carrying. The short, blue-eyed, cute, blonde was likely glad that she was well trained enough to be able to pull her punches. The man was again unfazed. He continued to laugh.

"Gabe?" asked the tall, lanky man.

"Well, he's right isn't he?" chuckled the man, "We can't hold him here. Mycroft would throw a fit, and we can't do any of the usual procedures, unless any of you don't fancy your jobs too much. Plus, he briefed us on leaving the D.I." he nodded at Lestrade, "and his friend," another nod at John, "out of the equation. We already failed at avoiding them all together. I say we bump this one to someone else who Mycroft can incinerate."

Sherlock's face, for an unnerving change, showed a flicker of surprise at the man's casual use of his older brothers name. Not only did these men and women seem surprisingly unprofessional for Mycroft's tastes, but they also seemed too low on the metaphorical food chain to deal with his brother personally. His eyes narrowed, and his friends could see him begin to reevaluate each of the agents.

"I say we take this into the next room," said the young man, shifting his case from one hand to the other. "And perhaps even keep our voices down." The gangling man, who despite the unexplained flippancy of the dark-skinned joker seemed to be in charge, nodded, and led the team into the next room.

"Huh," said John.

"Shit," repeated Lestrade.

"Mycroft," Sherlock deadpanned to his two friends.

John and D.I. Lestrade stared at Sherlock. Sherlock grinned wickedly at the two of them, in that almost disturbing happiness John had witnessed when the detective had come to Sherlock in, as John's blog named it, "A Study in Pink." He looked around at the hidden cash of weapons and directed his eyes to the hidden scene behind the doorframe—the five agents huddled up, discussing what to do with Sherlock—while the unexplainable body lay on the coach, its hateful eyes staring straight ahead.

"Lestrade," he turned to the detective, older now then when he met him, and much more experienced with dealing with the genius maniac facing him, "I have decided that I will take your case."

* * *

Everyone, at some point in there life, is told to listen. Really, they are given the wrong advice. As human beings people listen all the time—to air, to background noise, to small talk, to advice—but they do not retain. It is the retaining that is important, and the learning to think while retaining. With that skill someone would be hard pressed to outthink their opponent, or be more persuasive than their tongue. It is the fact that so little people practice the skill that makes it such a dangerous weapon.

* * *

The demon sat, as many of its counterparts had before him, facing the faces that gave monsters nightmares. Of course he would be tied up and trapped.

And of course they would have knives. Lots and lots of demon hurting, salt covered, blessed knives.

One of the things about demons is that they're not really huge on the whole self-sacrifice trend. It was one of the things that made them so easy to break.

"Would you like me to repeat myself?" asked the haunted face before him, leering closer and reaching out to grab the other hand of his dead meatsuit to do something the demon didn't quite want to know with his fingers, hands, and arms. The torture, at first, had all been holy water, thanks to the gruff man in the back. Then the demon had attained the, in retrospect idiotic, idea that the pain might stop if he answered that one question that they were asking: 'Is the vessel alive?' It turned out that they had more questions.

A lot more.

And for the life of him, he didn't know the answers.

"I know…I know…I know I'm in the court," he stuttered, adding some extra quiver to try and will the two hunters to understand that though lying was his business, he wasn't lying about _this_. "…but it's impossible. Give it up," it came out as a whisper. "Give it up," it came out as a challenge. "GIVE IT UP," he screamed into the man's unshaven face. Then, just for affect, he started mumbling, "giveitupgiveitupgiveitupgiveitupgiveitup." It did seem to unsettle the two men enough to give the demon a small ounce of satisfaction.

"I don't think he knows Dean," said the man in the back, cautiously, as if afraid of what the man's reaction might be. The demon didn't blame the man's care.

"No," Dean said, and burst out into an almost unsettling grin. "I don't think he does." He smiled at the demon, and asked with a frightening, hysterical calm, "But do you know someone who might?" And then the knife was wedged into his eye. It _hurt_. Someone should really look at the fact that the demon can experience the vessel's pain, no matter what the reason.

"London!" he screeched. "He's in London!" The knife came out and the demon felt the trickle of cold blood drip down his face. With his good eye he glared at the men, smiling. "Or at least Mictian's bones are."

"What do his bones have to do with it?" It was the gruff man speaking, the one interested with whether his meatsuit was alive or dead.

"You bUrN them," the demon sing-songed. "Haven't you heard?"

The man stared at him. "You're lying," he said at last.

"Why would I be?" the demon smiled like a megalomaniac. Which, to be fair, he was. "What do I have to lose?"

The man stared at him, unsettlingly, which kinda pissed him off since he was the one who was supposed to be unsettling. The he said, emotionlessly, "He's useless, Dean, start the exorcism."

The man looking for the way to raise his brother from the cage he trapped Lucifer in, the man who had killed thousands of demons before, and the man who, though it taxed him to admit it, scared the hell out of him (which was saying something) nodded at the old guy.

He began:

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…"

The demon tuned out the rest when he started screaming, the bastards. At least he could be sure Mictian would kill them.

It served them right.

* * *

The next thing he knew he had a shoe on his throat. And it was an expensive one.

A polished British accent floated down to him, and he casually noticed he was in a lot of pain.

"Now, you might consider reporting," said the voice, "but if you don't I'm sure I could find a use for you…" a long pause, "…somewhere."

It didn't take the demon long to decide. He rushed, "The Winchester boy is still looking for his brother, unaware of his brother's…situation. The angel is in the wind, but he had an old man with him, one that I didn't recognize." The demon chose not to tell him the slip about the bones. "I sent them to Mictian."

"Excellent," said the posh accent, "you've done well." This, as well as the removal of the boot and the offered hand gave the demon quite a lot of hope for his future. It was crushed when as he tried to take the hand, he received a boot to the head. Damn. Well at least he knew he would have something to do for the next fifty years.

"Take him to my…special… torture room," ordered the voice above him, and while he was being dragged away he heard through his daze. "And let that be a lesson not to deal with the Winchesters. I have plans for them yet."

"…Unless, of course, you want to end up like him."

As the murmur of voices began to rise, the demon blacked out.

Long live the king.

**A/N: I would apologize, but it would get peoples hopes up for future quickly posted chapters. I sorta write really really slowly... Anywho love ya'll and I'll keep writing till my fingers break, so do not lose hope. We'll see what happens.**


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